


Lithium

by neverthelessthesun



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not between ot3), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Triad Verse, Author uses office compliance training to explain setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Phil Coulson, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I mean it all works out but highkey don't do this without talking it over first, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Misogyny, Multi, Mutual Pining, NSFW, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, No Safeword, OC's are all SHIELD agents, POV Clint Barton, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Pre-Avengers (2012), SHIELD, Self-Esteem Issues, Sub Clint Barton, Suicide mention, Swearing, Therapy, Threesome - F/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, author attempted to make OC's diverse and It Is Obvious, bad dating advice, ehh this is really bad BDSM etiquette, mentioned alcoholism, sorta?, there's literally no dub-con at all they just didn't talk before falling into bed lol, third person though, triad verse big bang, unsafe driving habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 05:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthelessthesun/pseuds/neverthelessthesun
Summary: Clint Barton is an agent of SHIELD. He does his job, he writes his reports, he crushes on his handler. Then he sees Natalia Romanov on a mission where he is supposed to kill her. He makes a different call.This story was written for the Triad Verse Big Bang 2017. It is complete.Art by kiyomisa.tumblr.comBeta-Read by superultrasuperherofanatic.tumblr.com





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for clicking! Please heed the tags of this fic. There is nothing in this fic that is triggering to me, but please use your best judgement when choosing to view this fic. If there is a tag you feel I have missed, please let me know.
> 
> This story was beta-read by the awesome superultrasuperherofanatic, who you can find at superultrasuperherofanatic.tumblr.com. Thank you so much for your input!
> 
> There are four amazing art pieces created by the wonderfully talented kiyomisa, who is at kiyomisa.tumblr.com. Please PLEASE check out their stuff.
> 
> Finally, Thanks to the folks at Triad Verse Big Bang for putting this on. You rock!

Clint was writing his report in the air duct. He had actually gotten much better at writing the reports now that Coulson was around, and Clint didn’t know weather to be annoyed with the guy or thank him. It was nice to have something to do after a mission—a way of decompressing, sort of like a debrief, but individual. (Clint chose individual activities whenever possible.) It helped him compartmentalize missions and real life. 

 

The report was about a reconnaissance mission in Caracas—SHIELD had received reports of potential alien substances being used as drugs. Turns out, it was just an ordinary drug ring, so Clint had mostly gathered what intel he could and turned it over to the local jurisdiction. No alien tech means no SHIELD intervention. 

 

Clint had been kinda bummed to miss the chance to shoot some drug dealers in the head, though, especially these guys. They were a rough crowd. The leader of the cartel had taken to using children as smugglers for drugs, paying them with food, and encouraging them to try to get their friends addicted. As if Venezuela didn’t have enough problems with all the unrest lately. 

 

It was things like this that made the decompression and compartmentalization so needed. 

 

Anyway. he was writing his report in an air duct. He was in the air duct mostly because it was his third favorite spot to be at any given time, and the first two (The mess and Coulson’s office) were full of people. As mentioned above, Clint preferred to be alone a lot of the time, so the lack of people upgraded the air duct to favorite place for the time being. 

 

Coulson’s office was fairly close to Clint’s current location—close enough that if there was a shouting, his hearing aids would pick it up. The general background noise of other offices and the cooling system and the rustling of paper from his report would drown out anything quieter, even if he were right on top of the office. Drat things. 

 

Clint thought about how to word the next sentence and sighed. His reading and writing had improved tenfold when he came to SHIELD, but was still somewhat behind the curve for a man of his age. He struggled with vocabulary, with spelling. It made him feel like a kindergartner. He was glad Coulson was his handler for most missions, because Coulson never asked about his convoluted wording or spelling mistakes. He simply accepted the report and moved on.

 

Report nearly finished, Clint started contemplating braving the mess hall for lunch despite the crowd that would still be there—it was only just past one o’clock. Rita would give him an extra brownie if she saw him, and her shift ended at two. He would have time. 

 

_Bloop_.

 

He had a text message.

 

Coulson: _Meet me at my office in five._

 

Clint: _Can I stop by the mess first?_

 

Coulson: _Rita gave me a brownie for you. Five minutes._

 

Clint sighed, scrambling down the duct to his exit point down the hall. This was either going to be very bad or good, and Coulson never told which.

 

.o0o.

 

“Congratulations, Barton,” Coulson said as Clint entered the office and sat down. “Fury has put your name forward as a consideration to be bumped to level 4.”

 

Level 4 was only two levels below Jasper Sitwell, and only probably like eighteen below Coulson, whose security clearance was so high that he probably outranked Fury sometimes. Clint had been working on level 4 since he made level 3 last August, that case in Mongolia.

 

“Is it because I snitched on Kaiser?” Clint asked, eyeing his brownie. Agent Kaiser had been…less than pleasant to work with on this last mission. He was more loudmouthed than most SHIELD agents, and when you’re a racist, that trait doesn’t really work in your favor. 

 

“No,” Coulson replied. “It’s because you made the right call in Caracas. You saw that SHIELD wasn’t needed, you called it in. We’ve known for a while you can bring your talents to the table when they are needed, but to know when to turn it off, especially in a situation where you think you can do some good, is hard. You proved you can do that.”

 

That was high praise. “Thanks, sir.”

 

“No thanks needed, Agent Barton, just stating fact.” Coulson did that thing where he almost smiled but not quite. “Get some rest, we’ve got debrief in 7 hours.”

 

“Sir.” Clint offered. He grabbed his gear (and his brownie) and closed Coulson’s office door behind him. 

 

.o0o.


	2. Chapter Two

**** After debrief the following day, Clint was tricked (by Sitwell, but he was sure Coulson was behind it) into going to the mandatory HR seminar on Gender and Triad Acceptance training. A few years ago, the United States had (finally, way behind other first world nations) legalized gay triad marriage, and now it was pretty commonplace. SHIELD’s policy had been the same since the 2000’s, as far as not discriminating against people for their sexual orientation, but apparently they kept finding things to update, because the seminar was required for all personnel every 12 months. 

 

So, Clint was stuck in seminar. He doodled with a golf pencil on the pamphlet that Judy-from-HR had handed out. 

 

“We’re going to get started with an overview of the way triads are handled in the US, just as a baseline,” Judy-from-HR explained. “Some of you come from other cultures and places, and we just want you to be fully prepared for any differences you may come across.” Clint was already contemplating taking his hearing aids out. 

 

“The majority of relationships in the US, as with pretty much anywhere, are triads. That is to say, three people who are romantically or sexually involved with each other. Dyads, or couples, make up about 10% of all long-lasting, “complete” relationships. Of the triads, 87% of those include persons of more than one gender.” 

 

“In this seminar we will be talking more specifically about discrimination against mono gender triads, dyads, and nonconventional relationships. If you would please turn to page three…” 

 

Clint was already doodling on page three, so he didn’t move. Judy glanced at him suspiciously and he guessed Coulson had asked her to make sure he participated. He made a show of dragging his finger down the paragraph as she began reading. 

 

“There is a zero-tolerance policy for any kind of discrimination, bullying, or harassment towards anyone during employment at SHIELD. This includes outside of work hours in a public setting or online. This policy includes discrimination based on race, ethnicity, nationality, religion, sex, gender identity, gender expression, sexual orientation, or disability. This policy will be enforced by all members of the organization.” Judy glanced around the room. “That means that if you, as an employee of SHIELD, see any of this stuff happening, you let two people know right away. Number one is your superior officer, number two is the HR or Psych representative assigned to you. So for example, Mr. Barton.” Coulson definitely told Judy to make him participate. Ugh. 

 

“I would inform Agent Coulson and Doctor Maddex.” 

 

“Thank you, Agent. Now once you have informed those two people, you will need to fill out an incident report. That’s form H-132a, if you’re following along in the pamphlet. These get processed by HR within 24 hours…” 

 

This was going to take at least another hour and a half. Clint tried not to sigh too loudly into his doodle, but Judy-from-Tactical was sitting in the next row up, and she turned around to share a bored look with him anyway, so he couldn’t have been that quiet. 

 

“…as far as couples, it’s expected that they are looking for a third, and most of the time, that is true. However, complete couples do exist, and mono-sexual lifelong partnerships are not unheard of. Our policy is that couples will be treated with the same level of respect as triad members. And besides that, it’s rather rude to ask a couple if they are looking for a third anyway. This goes double for couples who are the same gender. Mr. Barton, any questions?” 

 

Clint had just sent a paper football sailing onto Judy-from-Tactical’s desk, and tried to look sheepish. “No, ma’am.” 

 

Judy-from-HR glared down at him. He shuffled lower in his seat. “Alright, let’s move on.” 

 

Judy-from-Tactical somehow managed to send the paper football back to him without turning around. It landed square in the middle of his desk and he was again reminded that he was surrounded by talented people. They kept up this game until the seminar was blessedly over, fifteen minutes early. 

 

“Suit up,” Coulson said, falling into step with him on his way out. “We have a retrieval mission, takeoff in a half-hour. Time sensitive. Brief on the quinjet.” 

 

At least, he reflected, he was never bored for long in this job. 

 

.o0o. 

 

The retrieval was actually fairly interesting. There was a metallic substance called the Monarch Alloy that was highly poisonous. Only a milligram of the stuff could contaminate a city’s water supply irreversibly, and inhaling its dust was also fatal. The Monarch Alloy had a bloody history—it got its name because its first known uses were by the alchemists of kings, to thin peasant population. 

 

The combination of elements and whatever else in contained had been lost to history for some time, but SHIELD reports from the black market say someone is trying to get rid of a whole gram of it—and fast. Clint, Coulson, and a team were being called in to pinpoint the distributor and take whatever minerals they had, preferably without finding out if the stuff is as deadly as the seller claims it is. 

 

“So of the thirty-eight suspects nationwide, four are currently within driving range of the coffee shop it was posted from.” Coulson clicked a button and the screen of the laptop switched from showing all the potential names to just two photos. “Two live within twenty minutes of it. Jordan Freeman, noted chemist and Professor at Bellsouth University. And Levi Hopkins, a former UC Berkeley researcher with a reputation for being a history buff. Start there?” 

 

“My money says Hopkins,” Clint offered from the back of the seven agents being briefed. “He has the history interest. Nothing about Freeman’s file says he was interested in how kings killed people seven hundred years ago.” 

 

“Bellsouth has the most raw data from that timeframe, though,” contradicted Agent Lee. “Their history department focuses on Medieval times and feudalism in the latter half of the Middle Ages. Freeman had more access to resources.” 

 

“We’ll be checking into both of them. Agent Jimenez will be running point on this one, folks. I’ll be in the van with Agent Mizrahi, watching all the angles will be Agent Barton. Lee, Nowakowski, you go where Jimenez wants you.” 

 

Jimenez took over explaining tactical and what their approaches would be. At the end, he said, “We are in a crunch, here, folks. The seller of the Alloy has stated they will provide proof of its poisonous nature publicly tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. We’ve got to stop them before they can complete that demonstration, or a lot of people are probably gonna die.” Solemn nods all around. Jimenez met each of their eyes. “Let’s go get ‘em.” 

 

.o0o.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I don' think the art posted last chapter. I'm still figuring it out.

Clint was up high in the townhouse across the street from Freeman’s apartment, and he had a rifle. He had advocated for the bow on this mission, as he nearly always did, but Coulson had gave him that little downturn of the corner of his mouth that meant there was a reason a gun might be a good idea, but he hadn’t been told. So he’d taken the sniper rifle and a handgun. He had brought his bow, just in case. 

 

Freeman lived on the second floor, and Clint was almost parallel with his living room window, giving him a good view of the couch and the apartment door. He could see into the office as well, through the other front window, and Agent Lee had eyes on the bedroom from the back. 

 

“Cut chatter,” Coulson said, even though the comm was silent anyway. The action was about to start. 

 

Through the open comm, Clint could hear Jimenez knock soundly on the door, then mumble to Agent Nowakowski that he hoped they could get back to base in time for karaoke night at Carla’s. Nowakowski cleared her throat over him just before the door opened. 

 

“Dr. Freeman?” Jimenez spoke first. “Agent Rick Jimenez with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. This is Agent Julia Nowakowski. Can we borrow some of your time?” 

 

Freeman did not open the door any further than he already had, his shoulders taking up the whole space. “I’ve not got anything more to say about that cat burglar,” he huffed. “I told your boys all I remember.” Jimenez tapped the comm once, a beep, asking for intel. 

 

“Freeman reported a robbery of personal items two weeks ago, suspect was a male between the ages of thirty and forty-five, about five feet ten, carrying a weapon. No leads,” Mizrahi offered. “The perp stole some books, it looks like.” 

 

Nowakowski cleared her throat again to cover Jimenez. “We are actually here on an unrelated case. We were tipped off that someone has been attempting to sell illegal substances on the black market, and wondered if we could ask you a few questions.” 

 

Clint watched the body language of Freeman’s back through his scope. “He wasn’t expecting that,” he told Coulson and Jimenez. 

 

“Sure, anything I can do,” Freeman said. “I don’t know anything about pot smokers either, though, other than some irresponsible college students.” 

 

“This substance we were advised of is called Monarch’s Alloy. It’s a metal which is thought to be poisonous to humans. Do you know that name?” Jimenez asked. 

 

“Can’t say as I do, off the top of my head. If I still had the Alchemy texts that were stolen, I might have found something in there about it.” 

 

Nowakowski tapped the comm. “So the stolen books were pretty old, then?” 

 

“Confirming…” Agent Mizrahi muttered. “Yes, police report says the stolen books were old Alchemy records from the Middle Ages.” At the same time, Freeman says, “Yes, ma’am. Copies of some seven hundred year old poppycock from the school I work at. My niece likes the pictures in them.” 

 

“Nothing else was stolen,” Mizrahi stated. “The perp’s description matches that of Hopkins.” 

 

“We wasting time here, boss?” Lee chides from the back. 

 

“One more thing,” Put in Coulson. “Ask him if he knows Hopkins.” 

 

Clint kept his eyes trained on Freeman. 

 

Nowakowski asked, “Dr. Freeman, do you know of a Dr. Levi Hopkins?” 

 

Freeman froze. “I’ve met him. Why, is he under investigation?” 

 

“We are not at liberty to say,” Jimenez cut in. 

 

“Well, I hope you put that man somewhere he can’t get at any young minds. He’s off his rocker, that one.” Freeman’s hand was shaking against the door. “Going on about the supremacy of the whites and all that racist propaganda.” 

 

Jimenez made a sympathetic noise. “Again, not at liberty to say. We appreciate your time, Dr. Freeman.” He stepped back, and over Freeman’s shoulder, Clint could see him step into Nowakowski’s space. She stepped to the left, away from him. 

 

Freeman nodded. “Well, sure. Good night.” And shut the door. Jimenez jabbered to Nowakowski as they made their way out of the building. Freeman sat down heavily on the couch, TV still muted, staring at nothing. “Shh,” Clint hissed into the comms, trying to lip-read. 

 

“Chatter!” Coulson snapped. 

 

_I have —- —- Calm. (Balm? Palm?) I have -— tell her(?) and Levi._

 

“He’s going to tip off Hopkins,” Clint said urgently. “They’re working together.” 

 

“Lee, to the van, stat. Barton, you have the bow?” 

 

“Sir.” Of course he did. 

 

“Tag the window. Then get in position for Segment B.” There was general background noise from the others and Clint set down the rifle and snapped his bow out of the open case beside him. He selected an arrow with a built-in microphone in the shaft, then let it fly, hitting his mark next to the window but out of sight from the apartment. As long as Freeman didn’t close his window, they would have partial ears inside. 

 

“Our timeframe just got moved up, Agents!” Coulson pressed. “Let’s move!” 

 

“There might also be another player,” Clint said, hushed as he packed up his gear. “Freeman looked like he mentioned a ‘her’.” 

 

“We are prepared for outside interference,” Coulson said. “Continue with Segment B.” 

 

“Yes, sir. On my way.” Clint turned tail. 

 

.o0o. 

 

They caught up with Hopkins, but only barely. Clint was on the roof, fifty yards from the action, and it was raining steadily, and he was starting to think that this simple retrieval was going to turn out to be more of an ass-pain than originally thought. Jimenez and Nowakowski were in front again, because Coulson was hoping that they would balance each other out or some shit. Nowakowski was quiet and didn’t take risks, while Jimenez took too many—and took some liberties he really shouldn’t. 

 

Lee was behind them on the street, keeping eye on but back far enough that a civilian wouldn’t spot her. She watched from the street while Clint watched from up high, looking for other players. 

 

The guy was carrying a suitcase and getting ready to hail a cab when Jimenez called out, “Dr. Hopkins?” 

 

The guy, predictably, took off. Jimenez had a knee in his back before he’d gone around the corner. 

 

_She_ came not a second after that, and suddenly Jimenez _and_ Hopkins were on the ground, unconscious. Nowakowski was fighting fiercely with the attacker. Clint saw a blur of her red hair. 

 

.o0o. 

 


	4. Chapter Four

“Lee!” Barton hissed, because she was closer. There was no response. Clint huffed and tried to get eyes on the woman assailant. He couldn’t see her. 

“Agent Lee! Do you copy?” Coulson barked. Still nothing. “Barton, do not engage attacker. If you get a clear shot, put her down, but stay where you are! Nowakowski, I’m on my way but we’re a ways out. Play dead if you have to.”

Clint tapped the comm. “Sir, what are we dealing with, here?” Nowakowski was losing the fight on the street. She was in defense mode only. 

“Intel calls her Nadine Roman. She may have been hired by Hopkins, or she could be fighting for a third party, we aren’t sure. We weren’t even sure she’d be here.” 

And, of course, info on a high-profile target was need-to-know. Coulson and Fury were probably the only ones who knew. Clint tried to see her, but Nowakowski and this woman were fighting in the only place his view was compromised. She knows I’m here, Clint thought. Then, more scarily, She knows exactly where I am. 

“If she is who we think she is, she’s high-profile. Orders are to shoot on sight.” Coulson continued, the sounds of his running coming through the comm. 

Clint tossed the gun away in frustration. It wasn’t helping. He reached for the bow and tried to guess a shot through the tree on the sidewalk. He hit air. “No clear shot, Sir.”

Suddenly, the fight shifted a bit. He still couldn’t get a good shot, but it was better. If he took it, he might hit Nowakowski, though. Nowakowski was still defensive, her movements getting slower. This woman is toying with her Clint thought, glancing down the street to see if he could spot Coulson. Not yet. Only a few seconds had passed. 

Nowakowski dropped. Clint couldn’t tell if she had given up and was playing possum, or if the red-haired woman had actually knocked her out too. Finally, finally, she stood and he had a clear shot. He set his aim.

In the split second before he fired, he took in the scene. Clint was a big picture kinda guy, and while generally it was a good idea to focus on what you were about to shoot, Clint was not just a good shot. He was also a tactician. He chose which shots he took, that was the deal when he signed on with SHIELD. And this shot? Well, it smelled fishy. 

Here is what Clint saw in that split second. He saw Hopkins and Jimenez on the ground, with Hopkins’ suitcase beside them. He saw Nowakowski’s form behind the tree. He saw the target, the red haired woman, standing in the middle of it all. Not hiding. Not running. Just staring down the shaft of his arrow back at him, exposed. Waiting. 

Clint didn’t shoot. 

“Barton, status!” 

He lowered his bow. “Nowakowski’s down. Sir, I’m calling it a 135.”

Coulson started running faster. “Don’t—” Clint pulled out his comm so he couldn’t hear the rest. He smashed it under his boot and dropped his bow, then he looked down. There was a fire escape on the third floor, right below him. He crouched, jumped, and landed with a clang. 

As he made his way down, the red-haired woman didn’t flinch or move. She watched him passively, almost confused. When he finally got boots on the ground, he crossed the street in a jog, and stopped five feet away from her. 

“We better go,” Clint said calmly. “The bossman will be here in eighteen seconds.”

She wasted another seven seconds staring at him. One eyebrow raised. Then she spun so quickly he couldn’t track her, and before he knew it, his arms were behind his back and he was being forced to walk quickly away from the agents on the sidewalk, away from Coulson. They rounded the corner before Coulson did, and then they were running. 

The woman shoved him into the side of a car half-way down the next block. “Get in,” she growled. There was a breath of an accent in her voice, but Clint couldn’t pinpoint it. He got into the passenger side of the silver Camry and, before he could buckle, they were driving. She turned left. Right. Then she got on the highway. Smart, Clint thought, watching two other silver Camrys pass them. Rush hour.

“Who sent you?” she demanded. The accent was gone.

Clint swallowed. “I’m with an organization called SHIELD.”

The woman scoffed. “I know that. I want to know the name of the man who sent you down to me.” 

“I chose to do that.”

She turned her full head to watch him. “Watch the road!” He complained. 

“The road is not lying to me.” She said ominously. 

“And I’m not either!” He insisted, palms up. “My boss is gonna be pissed at me. I might get fired.”

She glanced at the road and changed lanes, then glared at him again. “Why.” It wasn’t a question.

Clint took a deep breath. “Well—” 

“The truth.” 

“The truth is, I called the situation a 135. That’s the form an agent fills out when they object to mission parameters for some reason. Most of the time it’s filled out ahead of time, but they kinda sprang this one on me.”

The woman stopped staring at him quite so much, eyes more focused on the driving she was doing. “And what made you object to the mission?”

“Shoot-on-sight orders for an unknown. They didn’t tell me who you are, or what you’d done, but they wanted me to put you down.”

“You were trying to put me down for a while there.” She insisted. And it was true, he had shot at her. “It’s not the lack of knowing that got to you. Try again.”

Clint sighed. “You reminded me of this kid I knew.”

“Sentiment?!” She snarled. “Not the Amazing Hawkeye. You had a rep for being heartless before SHIELD nabbed you.” 

Clint winced. He had no idea what he was doing, dealing with a character that knew so much about him. 

“This kid,” he pushed on, “He and I were never friends, really. We worked the same shift in the circus. Cleaning out stalls, prepping the animal costumes, shit like that. 

“He was being abused pretty bad. I mean, we all were, but he was getting more of it than most of us. The Ringmaster liked to beat him up and call him a sissy, a girl. Probably did worse than that behind closed doors. 

“Anyway, I found this kid in the back of the crew tent one morning, early, and he was sitting there staring at a bottle of Tylenol with this look on his face like he was just…waiting. Well, I was probably ten, I didn’t know any better, so I went on with my day and found out later that morning that the kid had OD’d.

“And you, when I saw you, you looked like he did. Waiting. And I wasn’t gonna help you kill yourself, so.”

There was silence in the car, then. They drove for about two hours, never stopping. The woman didn’t look at him at all, keeping her eye firmly on the road. 

 

.o0o.


	5. Chapter Five

They eventually reached a gravel road, which became a dirt road, which led to a small cabin in a field. The woman had to turn on a generator before the lights would work. She didn’t let him out of her sight. She didn’t try to restrain him, either, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified that she felt she didn’t have to. 

 

“What’s your name?” Clint asked as she dragged him through the house, checking each room. 

 

“I go by many names,” she declared. 

 

“Right,” Clint said, “but what do you want me to call you?”

 

She gave him an eyebrow. “Did they not tell you who I am? Really?” Clint shrugged. He was pretty sure “Nadine Roman” was not her real name. She sighed. “Natasha.”

 

Counting this as a win, Clint grinned. “I’m Clint. I mean, you already knew that, obviously, but that's my name.” The eyebrow climbed higher. “I’m going to stop saying the obvious any time now.”

 

Clint hadn’t seen any food in the tiny kitchen, but Natasha whipped up some peanut butter sandwiches from somewhere. “Quick protein,” she offered him one. 

 

Clint figured, if she was going to kill him, she would have done it by now, and not with a peanut butter sandwich. He ate it. 

 

When they were finished, Natasha sat across from him and stared at him very hard. Clint tried not to flinch under her gaze. 

 

“What do we do now?” she asked finally. 

 

This was a very good question. The way Clint saw it, they had three options, and none of them were great. “We can split up, go our separate ways. I’ll go back to SHIELD and explain to my boss that you dumped me out of town, and you can go back to…whatever it is you do.” She did not move a single muscle in her face, but he could tell she didn’t like this option. 

 

“We could go off together and try to keep your enemies and mine off our backs. Don’t laugh, I’ve thought about it, going rogue. It’s an option.” This was technically true, but Clint would rather not, for a multitude of reasons.

 

“Or, I can bring you in. You’d get to meet the Director, and he’s a busy guy, so it’s almost worth the price of admission just to look him in the eye.” Ha, eyepatch joke. “You’d get debriefed, you’d get three square meals a day, you could choose where you go from there. SHIELD’s not so bad, really.”

She seemed to be considering it. “Give me your best sales pitch, then.”

 

Clint blinked. “Well, that’s it, mostly. Three meals a day, a safe place to sleep, a killer gym. You work for them, and they call the shots, sure, so if you’re a control freak it may not work for you. But these people, they do their best. To protect people. It gives you a chance to, I don’t know, do some good. With the skillset I have, those options are thin on the ground.”

 

This wasn’t, perhaps, the most eloquent speech, but it did seem to get through to her. Clint stayed quiet for a minute—he was good at quiet. She stared at him some more.

 

Eventually, she said, “Well, we won’t be doing anything tonight. Get some rest, we’ll talk in the morning.”

 

Clint nodded and skedaddled to the smaller of the two bedrooms. The staring put him on edge. 

 

.o0o.

 

The next morning, Clint was up with the sun. He always had trouble sleeping in places he didn’t recognize, if he wasn’t on mission.

 

Natasha was already up, frying some eggs in a pan that Clint still didn’t know where she had gotten it from. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, so Clint let it be. 

 

She served him half the eggs like they did this every morning, and Clint ate. She watched him as he did, looking for something. 

 

“I want to go with you,” She said apropos of nothing. “To SHIELD.” 

 

Clint chewed carefully and swallowed. He had been sure she would take off. “Okay,” he said. 

 

“I want to talk to your boss. The one you like.”

 

“Wh—"

 

She gave a feral smile. “You were talking about people that do their best to protect people. I assumed you had someone specific in mind.” 

 

Coulson, then. “Sure,” Clint tried to finish his eggs without wondering if he really was that transparent about liking Coulson. They hadn’t even _talked_ about him.

 

After breakfast, she did a sweep of the cabin one more time, occasionally moving this or that back in place. Then they got back into the silver Camry and headed east again, toward SHIELD. Clint didn’t tell her where to go. 

 

.o0o.

 

They got to SHIELD and there was a SWAT team to greet them. Clint should have expected it—after all, he went on the lam from his job and them walked in the front door the next day—but it took him off guard. He tried not to show it, but Natasha could tell. She kept a hand on her knife. 

 

“I need to talk to Coulson,” Clint offered to the SWAT captain. The burly guy just grunted and kept pointing his gun at Natasha’s chest. Not his chest, so he couldn't be in _too_ much trouble.

 

“Agent Coulson would like to talk with you, too," Fury’s voice emanated from a hallway. He swept into the room, his trench coat flaring dramatically behind him. Clint tried very hard not to roll his eyes and to look repenting. “Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me. Care to explain yourself, Agent.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“Sir, this op required unique handling. I felt it was necessary to go off the books on this one.”

 

“You felt. Uh-huh.” Fury was pretty mad. “And what did your superior officer feel when you discussed it with him?”

 

Clint did wince then. “I didn’t—“

 

“—You didn’t discuss it with him, you just fucked off to do your own thing. With an unknown hostile. For twenty-one hours. Am I correct, Agent Barton?”

 

“Sir,” Clint offered. 

 

“Probation, for three months.” Fury snarled. “If you so much as breathe out of regulation, I will fire you personally.”

 

“Yes, sir." 

 

“Coulson is upstairs for your debrief. I'll handle Miss Romanova from here.”

 

“Romanoff is fine,” Natasha spoke up for the first time. She seemed at ease, even with the dozen guns pointed at her. Clint glanced back and caught her eye, and she nodded. She would be fine. He sighed and jogged for the stairs. 

 

Coulson was standing over several monitors which showed the atrium and front door they had just walked in. He had three tech guys poking at keyboards. Agent Lance was there also, and he shut the door after Clint entered. 

 

“Sir,” Clint said.

 

Coulson said nothing, kept his back turned. Clint was in hot water here. 

 

“Sir, I’m sorr—“

 

“Not over this, Barton!” Coulson snapped, still looking at the monitors. “You do not get to just apologize for this." Clint saw him fist his hands at his side. “You disobeyed direct orders. You went off comms without prior approval in a situation that did not require you to be off comms. You were AWOL for almost a full day, then you show up hand-in-hand with the most deadly assassin on the planet—!” Here, Coulson did finally turn to him, and he looked murderous. “And then you want to say sorry.”

 

Clint had the decency to look ashamed for real this time. He shouldn’t say anything. 

 

“Wait—most deadly assassin?” He said anyway, and promptly cursed his fat mouth. He was terrible at quiet. 

 

“That’s Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow.”

 

.o0o.

 


	6. Chapter Six

So, learning that he had casually gone after the most deadly person on the planet—except maybe Tony Stark—put things slightly more into perspective for Clint. He understood why Coulson was pissed—Coulson hated losing agents, and for twenty-one hours, Clint was more likely to be a loss than a success. That wasn’t nice of him.

 

In his defense, he had no fucking clue that Natasha was a super-deadly assassin, because no-one had _told_ him. This was his number one problem with SHIELD. The secrets had secrets. 

 

Still, after scolding him in front of other agents and then not talking to him for three days, Coulson came around and stopped avoiding him. Or, Fury put them on the same milk run, so Coulson had to pretend it had been his idea to start talking and not a gargantuan push from Fury. One of the two. 

 

The milk run was just that this time—a milk run. Clint had gotten his ass busted back down to Level 2 for his stunt with the Black Widow (???? holy shit) and so he was restricted from the fun ops. Bummer. 

 

When they got back from the milk run, Fury had sent a memo letting everyone know that if they saw the Black Widow wandering the halls of SHIELD they were to ignore her, not shout for backup, That Means You Agent Klein, and sent a personal message to Clint telling him he was on her workout rotation because she was his mess in the first place. Clint, after being slightly terrified, pumped the air. He never had a good sense of self-preservation, and getting to test his skill against hers? Would be fun.

 

At six o-fucking-clock in the morning, he was up and in the gym, stretching to warm up. Natasha walked in, nodded to him, and said nothing. He finished his warm-up and met her in the middle of the mat. 

 

“How are you liking SHIELD so far?” He asked conversationally. 

 

She shrugged, eyeing him up. “The cafeteria has great brownies,” she said. 

 

“That’s what I think!” Clint said, only it was “That’s what I—oof.” and he was flat on his back, her foot planted on his chest. Damn. 

 

They went on like this for about an hour, and Clint bruised about every muscle in his body, and a few of the bones. Finally, she sniffed, “You’ll do,” and went to shower off. Clint tried not to throw up or hoot for joy. 

 

This was going to be amazing. 

 

.o0o.

 

“What do you think of Probationary Agent Romanoff?” Doctor Maddex asked Clint. Clint squinted in that way that said he wasn’t going to answer because he didn’t think it was important. Doctor Maddex continued, “She has been spending a great deal of time with you. If I didn’t know better, Clint, I’d think you had made a friend.”

 

Clint shrugged. “She’s fine.”

 

“You spar with her nearly every day.”

 

Clint hummed. 

 

“She eats lunch with you whenever you’re in the cafeteria.” This was also true, but Clint didn’t say anything. He also didn’t mention he’s been taking more meals than normal in the caf because of it. 

 

“She won’t talk to anyone but you, Coulson, and Fury.”

 

“Are you going to try to use me to get to her?” Clint snapped irritably.

 

Doctor Maddex smiled. “No, Clint. She's not assigned to me. I couldn’t care less about her, unless you do.”

 

“What says I do?” Clint argued challengingly. 

 

Doctor Maddex leaned back in her leather wingback chair. “The only words you’ve said about her, other than ‘she’s fine’ were to defend her from me. Odds are you care very much for only knowing her a month.”

 

Clint scowled. He’d been had. “Listen, Doc, I know most of SHIELD would say she’s a psychopath murderer, but they’re wrong.”

 

“I don't want to know what SHIELD thinks about her,” Doctor Maddex insisted politely. “I want to know how you feel about her.”

 

“How d’you feel about that?” Clint snarked, mimicking a high-pitched therapist. Maddex let out her cheshire grin.

 

“Clint. It’s the first time I’ve seen you socializing of your own will since you came to SHIELD. It’s a big step forward. I’m just trying to understand what prompted it.”

 

Clint bit his tongue. Doctor Maddex shuffled some papers and waited patiently. 

 

“She had never had macaroni and cheese before,” Clint muttered incredulously. “Mac and cheese. I basically lived on that shit when I first got here. Reminded me of home.”

 

“Iowa,” Doctor Maddex prompted. 

 

“Yeah, Iowa. My mom would make it. Cheap, easy. You know.” Clint nodded to himself. “But she’d never had it, not anywhere, and I had a minute where I was sure the only reason I was still alive at all was to give her some mac and cheese.” 

 

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. “So you feel responsible for her?”

 

“It’s more…yeah, a little, I guess. But mostly it’s that I get to watch her eat mac and cheese for the first time, or hoard scented candles, or—you know, normal stuff that normal people do. I get to see her discover what her normal is.” Clint’s voice sounded stupid with wistful idealism by the end. 

 

But Doctor Maddex was nodding. “I’ve come to a decision,” she said seriously. “I think you _have_ made a friend.” 

 

.o0o.

 

Coulson wouldn't leave him alone with Natasha for more than half an hour, probably because he believed they would get bored and get in trouble. He was probably right—so far, he had stopped three conversations about the theoretical murder of Agent Hand, one water balloon fight in the hallways, and several competitions of dubious nature.

 

“I bet I can get more baby agents to spar with me than you can,” Natasha offered one day, when the new recruits were being shown around.

 

Clint grinned. “You’re—”

 

“—Not going to do that,” Coulson came out of nowhere. “You are going to stand in the shooting range and show off while they get the tour.” 

 

And that was almost as good as tricking newbies, was scaring them. Coulson knew just how to curb Clint’s particular brand of crazy, and was learning Natasha’s quickly. This option wouldn’t end with anyone getting hurt, but would still let them keep their reputations intact. 

 

It was great, having Coulson around so much. Most of the time, outside of missions, Clint had to go find him for most things. Now, it was easier. It was better to be around Coulson, for a multitude of reasons—some Clint didn't want to acknowledge. 

 

“Let’s go,” Natasha said, dragging him to the range. He turned back to wave at Coulson, and caught a glimpse of fond humor in his handler’s eyes. Or maybe he imagined it. 

 

.o0o.


	7. Chapter Seven

“Are you fucking Coulson?” Natasha asked one December day, when the snow was drifting outside Clint’s tiny barrack window and their hot cocoa mugs had started to cool. 

 

Clint tried not to snort marshmallows up his nose. “Jesus! Natasha! Give a guy some warning!” It had been six months since she had come back with him, and she still surprised him more often than not. 

 

“Are you? They told me we aren’t supposed to screw our handlers here, and no one does unless they want to, but Jimenez and Vicks are on and off, Colby and Carlson are both mooning after agent Johnson, And Millie, Harry, and Julia are at it like rabbits.”

 

“Julia Nowakowski, Harry Shu, and Millie Martinez?”

 

“Clint, they’ve been together like two years. You blind as well as deaf?”

 

Clint wasn't blind, he just worked with a bunch of talented spies. So sue him.

 

“So, are you and Coulson?”

 

Clint shook his head, still in shock. “You think I could hide something like that from you?”

 

“You like him,” She pointed out, like she was trying to be helpful.

 

He rolled his eyes. “And?”

 

“So why aren’t you?” She asked curiously. 

 

Clint tried not to fidget. “It’s against regs. Yeah, I know everyone sleeps with their superiors anyway, but Coulson never has. He’s a regs kinda guy. Plus, I don’t even know if he’d be into guys, or into me.”

 

Natasha snorted like that was a stupid response. “You could find out. Ask him.”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Clint responded in a huff. “If he’s not into me, and I come on to him all moony, I’ll ruin the only functional relationship I’ve ever had, even if it is just a working relationship. Don't look at me like that, you and I are not functional.”

 

“And if he is into guys? Into you?” Natasha asked. 

 

“Then it lasts for, what, six months? We break up, I still ruined the good we have now. He’s smart and moral and in love with Captain America, and I am an alcoholic, uneducated hick with a chip on his shoulder. It would never work.”

 

Natasha got quiet for a moment. Then she murmured, “But you want it to.”

 

Clint set down his hot cocoa and rubbed his face. “But I want it to.”

 

They watched the snow drift for a while. “I think I know how that feels,” she finally says. 

 

Clint studies her profile. “Tash…” She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him. “I know you see the others doing it, but relationships in a place like SHIELD are not a good idea. Our death rate is too high.”

 

“Do you care about that with Coulson?” She snapped. It was true, Clint wouldn’t think of dying as a reason to not date. You can’t live your life in fear of dying.

 

“Promise me,” Clint pleaded, “that you won’t run into a relationship at SHIELD just to experience it. That you’ll wait until you’re secure here, and you don’t want to leave.”

 

Natasha jolted as if she’d been shocked. She still didn’t look at him, but her voice was affectionate when she said, “Right on target, as always, Hawkeye. I’m not used to someone knowing things I haven't told them.”

 

Clint shrugged and stared into his cocoa. “I got a knack for it.”

 

“You’re still missing the point,” she offered, glancing at him with a sly grin.

 

He met her eyes. “Never said I don’t see better from a distance.”

 

They chuckled, then spent the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence. The snow blew past. 

 

.o0o.

 

The new year saw a lot of new work for Strike Team Delta (Fury had given them a code name—they were going places) and so they rarely had a chance to rest. Natasha and Clint both made Level 4 in record time. Still, one tired evening in February, Clint had the chance to tuck himself into an air duct above Coulson’s office and catch up on his emails. He didn’t get too many emails, but the ones he did usually required long answers, and with his general lack of high school education, it took him a while. Still, he more or less enjoyed the solitude, and the almost silent sounds of Coulson from below.

 

Someone came down the hall and knocked on Coulson’s door. Clint meant to finish a sentence and move out of eavesdropping range—Coulson didn’t explicitly know he was there—when Agent Hand burst in to the office and shouted, “Dammit Coulson! You have got to do something about Agent Barton!”

 

Clint could only see the metallic walls of the air duct, lit softly by the glow of his tablet. Hearing was his worst sense ("Other than common sense,” the Natasha in his brain snarked) but it would have to do for this. What, you think he wasn’t going to listen in?

 

“He’s irresponsible, doesn’t do what he’s told, he can’t write reports for shit—“ And that stung, because he’d been working on that since before Natasha— “I don’t know why you haven’t hung him out to dry.” Hand finished sourly.

 

Coulson, who didn’t ruffle easily in a gunfight, wasn’t the slightest bit peeved when he responded, “Barton is my best asset. I won’t let him be ruined by your bad handling and slipshod management.”

 

After Hand spluttered for another few seconds, Coulson rolled his chair away from his desk. Clint pictured him standing in the “I may not look it but I am a deadly person” pose. Hands resting on the desk, shoulders back, direct eye contact. Very intimidating. 

 

“The reason you believe Agent Barton is not responsible is because he doesn’t show up on time to your briefings. The first fifteen minutes of your briefings are bullshit, Victoria. You know that, everyone knows it. He doesn’t like to waste time. 

 

“The reason you think he doesn’t do what he’s told is that he doesn't do what you tell him. He does what I tell him just fine. What I tell him to do is prioritize life, then the truth, then the mission. You keep telling him to skip the first two. 

 

“And the reason you think he’s bad at writing reports is because you don’t read his reports. So tell me again, Agent Hand, what complaints do you have against my asset?”

 

Clint was shivering in the duct where he sat—he didn’t know why. Adrenaline? Anger at Hand? Something else? 

 

Hand pussyfooted for a few more moments—she brought up the mission in Memphis, that bitch—but eventually left Coulson’s office muttering under her breath about favoritism. 

 

“You can come out now,” Coulson said. Clint scrambled for the vent and tried to look for all the world like he wasn’t just caught spying on the conversation of two superiors. 

 

“You sigh occasionally when you’re writing and can’t remember the right word,” Coulson explained. 

 

Clint tried very hard not to turn red—he spent a lot of time writing in the air duct. “Sir," he finally settled on.

 

“I want to be clear, agent. I do not condone listening into conversations you are not invited to.” Coulson sat again and gestured for Clint to do the same. “I also want to be clear—Agent Hand is a competent enough handler and you should respect her position. That said, I have no problems with you directly defying her commands in the field if your judgement tells you it will save a life.”

 

Clint nodded. He was getting told to continue to disobey. Christmas had come early. 

 

“Clint,” Coulson softened. “You do good work.”

 

That was about as sappy as Coulson ever got. Clint grinned back at him. “Only ‘cause you’ll beat my ass if I slouch.”

 

Coulson shook his head. “You’re a good person on your own merit. You don’t need me to make you be better.”

 

“You do make me better.” Clint blurted, before he could stop himself. For a second he thought he was made—that was almost a declaration of love from him.

 

But then Coulson just gave a smile, the kind that Clint saw maybe once a year, the kind that lit up his face, then the room, then your insides. 

 

After Coulson shooed him out of his office, under the pretense of getting some work done, Clint thought about that smile. He thought about the way it made him feel. He thought about Natasha, and hot cocoa, and trusting someone to have your back. Two someones.

 

“Shit,” he said out loud.

 

He was never going to be able to get out of this with his heart intact.

 

.o0o.

 


	8. Chapter Eight

“I wish he’d back off,” Julia whined to her pastrami sandwich. It was crowded in the caf, so Clint was forced to sit rather closer to other people than he’d normally like, going so far as to share a table. Even though he wasn’t trying to hear the conversation next to him, he still had to. 

 

“Jimenez?” Natasha piped up, plopping her mac and cheese down on the other side of him and effectively trapping him in this conversation. “What a pig.”

 

“Totally,” Judy-from-Tactical enthused. “You should report him to HR.”

 

“But he’s not really doing anything against the rules,” Julia pointed out, “He’s just being really fucking obnoxious. I can’t report him for standing too close or continuing to talk to me. We work together.”

 

“The guy has no concept of personal space,” Natasha offered sympathetically. “I think if I feel him breathing down my neck one more time I’ll step on his foot.” Clint winced. Natasha stepping on your foot hurt. 

 

Julia snorted. “Let me be there when it happens. But seriously, he knows I’m with Harry and Millie. Everyone does.”

 

“Clint didn’t,” Natasha said, throwing him to the fishes, because she is evil. 

 

Then came the choruses of “What?!” and “How did you not know?” and Clint tried very hard to imagine shrinking into his potato salad so he could Not Be Here, thank you. 

 

“I see better from a distance,” he offered grudgingly, not looking up from his chunk of potato salad. 

 

Judy-from-Tactical made a cooing noise. “That explains some things, doesn’t it, hon?” she said, like she was sorry for him.

 

Clint ignored her and tried to eat as quickly as possible so he could leave. He was glad Natasha was making friends, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. 

 

.o0o.

 

Later that afternoon, he walked into Coulson’s office to find his normal spot on the comfy-office-couch taken by Natasha’s feet, her nose in a gigantic, brightly-colored book and Coulson nowhere to be found.

 

“You’re in my spot,” he said, because Clint was bad at thinking before he spoke. 

 

Fortunately Natasha didn’t glare at him or make fun of him, just moved her feet up so there was room for him to sit, then she wiggled them under his thigh for warmth. She didn’t look up from her book. That was the thing about Natasha—when she looked at you, she had her full attention on you, and it was a bit overwhelming. But just because she wasn’t looking at you didn’t mean she wasn't paying attention.

 

Clint stared at the empty desk across from them and wished Coulson was there, working. He was in Miami doing something with Tony Stark. “Babysitting” he had called it. Clint was sure it was more complicated than that. 

 

“Stop,” Natasha muttered from the depths of her book. 

 

“Stop what?” Clint muttered back. 

 

“Stop pining.” 

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Are too.”

 

Clint wondered how he got to the point in his life where the most deadly assassin in the world argued with him like a third-grader. 

 

“Wanna go out?” He said, instead of keeping it up.

 

She glanced over the top of “The Invention of Hugo Cabret" and raised one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “Where?”

 

“I dunno.” She returned to the book and flipped a page, then another one. “No way you’re reading that fast.” Clint pointed out.

 

She flipped back and turned the book so he could see—the whole page was a giant picture, a close-up of a white-haired man. “Don’t call bullshit on the best bullshitter.” She sing-songed. 

 

Clint became interested. “Is the whole book like that?” She showed him the mix of text and full-page pictures. “I could probably read a book like this.” He exclaimed. 

 

“You could read any book you put your mind to if you wanted,” Natasha disagreed. 

 

Clint hummed. “You always give me more credit than I deserve, Tasha.”

 

“Not more than you deserve,” she said casually, but now she was looking at him in that hard, intense way. “Exactly the right amount.” 

 

It occurred to Clint that he was leaning into her space to look at the book better, and that they were very close. He pulled back sharply. “Sorry, I—sorry.” 

 

Natasha had a blank look which meant she was confused. “Sorry? For what?”

 

Clint shrugged. “You were complaining, earlier today. In the caf, with Judy-from-Tactical and Julia? About Jimenez.”

 

Natasha closed the book and leaned towards him. “Jimenez is a creep. You’re my—friend.”

 

Clint finally had to glance away from her gaze. “Yeah,” He offered. 

 

“Clint.” Natasha said. He looked up.

 

They were very close together suddenly, with her leaning into his space and him looking over at her, and Clint had a split second thought that she was going to kiss him. 

 

Then she did kiss him, soft and close-mouthed. It was just for a moment. His eyes opened and he didn't remember closing them. 

 

Natasha was still doing the intense gaze thing, but now somehow it was bearable. He stared back at her. “What—”

 

“—Remember, six months ago, when you asked me to not run into a relationship until I was sure I wanted to stay?” she cut him off. Clint nodded mutely.

 

“I want to stay.” 

 

He kissed her this time, and she kissed back, and then it didn't matter because they were kissing each other and it was wonderful. They tangled together on Coulson’s couch, breathing in each other and tasting. Clint nibbled at her lip, and she sighed softly. The noise did something strange to his heart, made it pump faster. He felt his hands shake as he cupped her cheek. 

 

They pulled apart after a bit, breathing heavier than normal, and Clint tried not to feel proud that he got Natasha to lose even that little control. She grinned at him, and he felt like he could burst from joy.

 

But Clint, feeling like an idiot, had to ask. “So, are we…”

 

“Yes,” Natasha answered decisively. “We are. And, maybe, if he wants, Coulson.”

 

Clint shivered. “Nat…”

 

“I want him. I want you and him. Together.” Her voice dropped low and sultry. “Clint, I want Phil.”

 

Clint found he couldn't deny her anything when she talked like that. Especially when he already wanted it himself. “Yes," he murmured back, “Yes. Phil.” 

 

Then he reached to kiss her again. 

 

.o0o.


	9. Chapter Nine

August the thirtieth dawned grey and stormy, much to Clint’s dismay and Natasha’s immense enjoyment. Clint liked being able to see well over long distances, and rain sort of got in the way of that. Natasha, however, loved the rain—she said the smell was magical. 

 

Coulson was back in town, according to the water cooler gossip. Clint was a little hurt because usually he knew about SHIELD happenings before the water cooler, but in this instance it really couldn’t be helped. He had just got back from Texas himself, and Natasha wasn’t around to catch him up.

 

“Coulson’s back,” said Jimenez, who was falling lower in Clint’s esteem every time they talked. “Heard he whipped Stark into shape.”

 

“I heard Stark whipped him. With a literal bullwhip.” Candice Mayweather said. She was Hand’s glorified secretary and she thought moonbeams shot out her ass. 

“I heard Justin Hammer got whipped by Stark and we stood by and did fuck-all.” snarked Al Meeker.

 

“Now, come on, Al,” Jimenez wheedled. “You know Coulson’s a regs guy. If he thinks there’s a chance he shouldn’t get involved, he won’t.” Clint knew this was patently untrue, but Coulson had spent a great deal of time crafting his “rule-follower” persona. It was to Jimenez’ detriment that he couldn’t see through the façade. 

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Meeker muttered, his lip curling. “All I know is, the agency’s gone soft since I joined in ’65.” Clint couldn’t help thinking that Meeker had also gone soft. Or maybe it was just beer gut. 

 

Clint didn’t want to listen to SHIELD’s bottom of the barrel staff anymore, so he slunk down the air duct towards Coulson’s office. When he got there, he saw this was where Natasha had gotten off to—just like the last time he had seen her here, she was curled up with a book on Coulson’s couch. 

 

Coulson himself was behind his desk, brusquely applying a bandage to a paper cut on his pinkie. He looked up when Clint entered, and froze. “Barton,” He greeted softly. 

 

“Sir,” Clint returned. “How was the Stark Expo?” 

 

“A damned mess. How was Texas?” 

 

“Alright.” Coulson nodded. 

 

“Nat’s been spreading rumors,” Coulson said, his tone implying he was confiding something in Clint, even thought Natasha was right there. 

 

“Oh?” Clint asked. He turned and raised an eyebrow at her, and she met his gaze with a twinkle in her eye. “Oh,” he said softly. He remembered kissing her on that very couch last week.

 

Coulson didn’t hear the change in his voice. “Yes, she’s been trying to set us up.” When this didn’t get a reaction, Coulson clarified, “With each other.”

 

“You free on Friday?” Clint offered weakly. “We’d like to take you out.”

 

Coulson stopped fiddling with his bandaid and looked Clint straight in the face. 

 

Clint, because he was terrible at being quiet, said “Both of us. I mean, we’d like—to take you to dinner or something, and um, date you?” 

 

“Real eloquent, Clint,” Natasha sniffed from behind him, but her nose wasn’t in the book anymore, she was watching Coulson carefully. 

 

Coulson still hadn’t said anything. Clint tried not to fidget. He was a sniper, damnit, he was awesome at not fidgeting—

 

“You. You two. want to date. Me.” their handler finally gritted out. He stood and put his hands on the desk, in the “Intimidating Deadly Person” pose. “You young, talented, intelligent agents want to date your stuffy old handler.”

 

"I want to date Phil Coulson, the most deadly man-in-a-suit, the most remarkable and truly good man I have ever met.” Natasha corrected. “The convenience of working together is a bonus. I get to see you more often.”

 

“You must be joking.” Coulson declared. 

 

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what I must be, Phillip J Coulson.” 

 

Coulson lowered his eyes in assent, then glanced to Clint. “Barton?”

 

Clint tried to think of something as romantic as what Nat had said, but his brain didn’t work like that. He didn’t have an hour to compose it in his head, and besides Coulson would know it wasn’t like him. 

 

_Call me Clint_ , he finally signed. 

 

Coulson brought a hand up in front of him, level to his shoulder and fingers curled into the shape of a “C”, then drew it back until it touched his cheek. _Clint_. His eyes shone. 

 

Then suddenly he was bent at the waist, dragged half over Coulson’s desk, having the living daylights kissed out of him. Coulson was kissing him hard and strong, and Clint had never been kissed like that before.

 

He was let go, and dazed, he watched as Natasha got up and went around the desk to press up against Coulson’s side, and that looked good, so Clint came around and pressed himself to Coulson’s other side. He saw Natasha tilt her head up, demanding a kiss for herself. And watching that was almost as good as being kissed himself. 

 

“Mmph,” Coulson tried to say something. He pulled away from Natasha, then tried again. “Tonight, at 8:00. Dress casual.”

 

“Coulson, we want to take _you_ out.” Clint pointed out. 

 

“Phil,” Coulson corrected. Clint’s insides swelled. “And you will, but I’m taking you out first. Now go. I have to fill out the change of status forms for all three of us.”

 

Natasha tugged him back down and kissed him sweetly. “This is real, Phil,” She murmured against his lips, then drew away. Clint stole one last kiss, and was glad to see that Coul—Phil looked just as dazed as he felt. 

 

They slipped out of the office side by side, and by mutual, silent agreement went to Natasha’s quarters. She lit a few candles, then curled around Clint on her bed, and they whispered like teenage girls with a crush until the flames burned low and it was time to get dressed. 

 

“What should I wear?” Natasha asked, but Clint didn’t offer a response except to kiss the back of her neck while she peered into her larger-than-regulation closet. Somehow every outfit she wore on an op that didn’t get ruined, she kept. 

 

“What should _you_ wear? That’s the bigger question,” Natasha cajoled. 

 

“He said casual! I thought that meant wear whatever!” Clint knew this was going to be wrong according to Natasha, but for all the fuss he made, he didn’t mind the dress-up. 

 

When Natasha was happy with both their outfits, they went arm-in-arm down to Coulson’s—Phil’s—office and knocked on the door. 

 

.o0o.


	10. Chapter Ten

Phil had made chicken alfredo. 

 

Phil had actually gone and bought ingredients and put them together and made really, really good chicken alfredo.

 

Clint had a moment where he damned himself in his own head for not knowing something so simple about Phil—that he could cook. But he shoved that thought down and squashed it. If there were things he didn’t know about these two, now was his chance to learn them, and get to know his—partners?—better. 

 

“No SHIELD talk on dates,” Natasha declared as they sat down to the meal, eyeing both the men. “Can you two handle that?”

 

It turned out, they could. Even around delicious, juicy bites of the best ever chicken alfredo, conversation managed to flow smoothly. They spoke of movies, sports, art, their favorite countries to visit and which pizza place in the Bronx was the best. They got into an argument about Henry’s versus Big Joe’s Slice, before Clint called a tie breaker and they all had to admit that the best pizza really came from Martinelli Pies in Chicago.

 

They spend out on Phil’s couch after dinner, Natasha sprawled over Clint’s lap and Phil solidly against his back. their conversation steadily hushed until Phil murmured in a low tone, “Natasha.” She turned to look up at him, and though Clint couldn’t see his face or feel the rumble of voice in his chest, obviously something was communicated. Natasha’s eyed gained a twinkle, and she fixed her gaze upon Clint with something approaching ferocity. 

 

“Clint,” she murmured, sitting up so she was very close to him, “Phil is getting bored.”

 

Clint caught on pretty quick. “Are you saying we should entertain him?” he proffered, arching one eyebrow high.

 

She grinned and leaned in, and Clint kissed her bottom lip. He felt a heat coil in his belly, and he raised a hand to thread his fingers through her curls. She nipped softly at his mouth, then moved to his jaw, where she set to sucking a massive purple spot into his pulse near his ear. Behind him, Phil groaned.

 

“I don’t deserve you two,” he mused, then he slipped a hand between them to brush against Clint’s toned stomach. Clint shivered. 

 

“Bed?” He suggested. 

 

“Greedy?” Natasha shot back.

 

“Mm, bed,” Phil chimed in, and suddenly Clint was swept up and down the hall, Natasha’s smile leading him into the bedroom.

 

“Strip,” Phil commanded them both. Natasha didn’t so much as glance at Clint before her dress was over her head. Phil, working on his buttons, hummed in approval.

 

“It’s not fair,” Clint muttered. “I have more to take off.” But then she was kissing his jaw, and helping him unbuckle his belt, and he didn’t mind so much. 

 

By the time they were both naked, Phil was down to his boxers. “You make a good team,” he grinned, sauntering over.

 

“We all make a good team,” Nat corrected, reaching to run a hand down Phil’s chest. He wasn’t as cut as Clint, but he was hairier, more solid. Clint tried not to drool.

 

He watched Natasha and Phil kiss for a while, slow and teasing. A man could live off that mental picture for a long time, he thought, and he was so distracted that he missed Phil beckoning him in.

 

“The whole point of it being the three of us is that it’s all three of us,” he said, slipping one hand around Clint’s hip and another behind Natasha’s hair. Clint followed his guidance and moved closer, looking up through his lashes in a way he hoped was sexy. No one laughed, so he must be doing it a little right. 

 

“What do you want?” Natasha asked Phil, her free hand coming up to pull softly at the small hairs on the back of Clint’s neck. “You want to be in the middle?”

 

Phil considered this. “Yes, at some point” he agreed, “I want it all. But right now, I really want to see you two. Together.”

 

Clint looked at Natasha, grinning slyly. She smiled her slow, dangerous smile right back. “That can be arranged.”

 

Not wasting any time, Clint stepped in close and laved her neck with his tongue. He heard her consciously steady her breathing, heard Phil’s stifled intake of breath. He sucked her earlobe between his teeth and nibbled, releasing only when he heard her rhythm give a tiny hitch. Then he moved to her chest, biting softly at an exposed nipple, then sucking, then biting the other. She gave a hushed moan.

 

She retaliated by palming his ass, her hands cool on his overheated skin, then sliding them up across his back. She reached his shoulder blades, then started moving down again, lightly scraping her nails as she went. Clint couldn’t help but shudder, his cock stirring. 

 

Phil had removed his boxers and was stroking himself to the sight of them just a few feet away. “Can I…” he asked hesitantly. 

 

“You’re the boss,” Natasha let out breathily. Clint pinched the nipple he wasn’t mouthing, and slipped his other hand down to give her something to rub against. That got a full moan as her hips jerked forward. 

 

Then Phil was behind him, pressing up against his back and thighs, his cock heavy at the small of Clint’s back. Natasha leaned in to kiss him over Clint’s shoulder, still rutting into his palm. Clint reached back to hold Phil close. “Can I have you two in my bed?” he asked in Clint’s ear, against Natasha’s lips. Nat must have nodded, because Phil pulled them over to the bed and kept pulling until they broke apart, falling into each other in a heap. 

 

Natasha, of course, was on top. She wriggled as Clint continued to appear her with kisses, bites, and hickeys. Clint’s cock grew harder against her. 

 

“I want to see you eat her out,” Phil stated matter-of-factly. Clint tried not to splutter—hearing straight-laced Phil Coulson tell him to eat out Natasha was something he never thought would happen. Then he slid down the bed until he was even with her hip, and watched her spread her legs invitingly. 

 

He inhaled against her thigh, taking in the scent of her, then licked softly at her opening. The taste was salty and sweet, and he eagerly licked again. Her knees fell further apart and she sighed. Phil was next to Natasha, making sucking noises at her neck and shoulders. His hand came across to Clint’s bare ass, and squeezed experimentally. 

 

“He likes that,” Natasha offered. Phil did it again, and Clint moaned into Nat, and then she moaned. Before long, Phil sat up to get behind them, and spread Clint’s cheeks wide. Clint whined at being so vulnerable, so visible before Phil. He felt his thumbs stroke on either side of his hole, skimming the rim teasingly. 

 

“Will he like it if I rim him?” Phil asked Natasha. Clint couldn’t have answered anyway, with his face shoved into Nat’s cunt and her strong grip keeping him there. 

 

“Mhmm,” she whined as she bucked. Clint redoubles his efforts to please her in thanks. 

 

Then Phil’s tongue touched him, slicking up his hole and crack, making him jump like a spark went through him. Still speaking him, Phil began to lick and suck in an imitation of what Clint was doing to Natasha. 

 

“Mmm,” Clint moaned right against Nat’s clit. Her fingernails scraped at his scalp, and she let out another soft whine as she came into his mouth. He licked her through the orgasm, then leaned back to pant against her hip, thrusting his hips back to meet Phil’s coaxing tongue. She continued to drag her fingers through his hair, petting him.

 

Phil backed off for a moment. “You’re squirming,” he warned Clint softly. “Natasha, hold him still.”

 

And, bondage, that was something Clint rarely indulged in. He offered his hands to Natasha, resting his weight on his elbows on either side of her waist. She accepted, and then yanked his arms straight, sending him face-first into her stomach. She placed his hand on her breasts, squeezing around them. “Gotta give him something to focus on,” She chided. Clint squeezed her and mouthed at her stomach. Her body was holding his shoulders up, and Phil’s grip held his hips up. He couldn’t move at all.

 

Phil slipped a finger into him, still tonguing alongside it. “Fuck, please,” Clint groaned. 

 

“Please, what, honey?” Natasha asked, sugar sweet, like she didn’t know. 

 

“Please, more.”

 

Nat grinned like a cat. Phil must have heard, because suddenly there were two fingers, and Clint could feel the stretch. Phil’s fingers brushed against his prostate with every third thrust, causing him to jerk his hips and yelp. 

 

“What do you think, Natasha? Is he ready?” Phil asked, after fingering him for what felt like an eternity. Lube had been introduced at some point, and it was dripping down Clint’s thighs. Clint had lost the words he needed to beg, so he moaned instead.

 

Natasha regarded him for a second, then proclaimed, “I think he is. Clint, do you want Phil to fuck you?”

 

“God yes, Phil,” he said. The fingers in his ass shifted, then disappeared. “Need you,” Clint whined. 

 

Natasha hushed him while Phil put on a condom and lined up. He felt the tip of Phil’s cock, and suddenly wished he could see what was happening. “I…”

 

“Is it good?” Natasha asked him softly, still petting his hair. He nodded against her hip. “Good, Clint.” He soaked up the praise. Phil thrust and sent him higher up her stomach.

 

“Hold on,” Natasha called a pause, readjusting them so Clint was lower on the bed. “I want him to make me come again.”

 

Clint went back to his task with relish, bracing to meet Phil’s thrusts and using his momentum to tongue at Natasha’s clit in tempo. This time he pushed his tongue into her, too, using every trick he knew to find her sweet spots. She came almost in record time, still sensitive, and had to pull his head away when she was done. 

 

“I want to see you on his cock,” Phil said, almost hesitantly. “If that’s okay, Natasha?”

 

It made Clint so hard, when Phil only asked Nat what she wanted, and took from Clint without asking. Clint felt used, owned, spoken for in a way he couldn’t describe. Still, Natasha was looking out for him and making sure he was enjoying himself, and communicating for both of them to Phil. Even though he hadn’t spoken much, he still felt more connected than he ever had before. It was the ultimate trust fall—to trust Natasha to speak for them both, and trusting Phil to do the best thing for all three of them.

 

While he was thinking this, Phil and Nat moved him onto his side, arms still above his head, Phil spooning his back intimately. Natasha rolled a condom onto his length, hitched a leg around his hip and guided his cock into her wet pussy. Phil pushed his cock even deeper inside Clint, and the dual sensation almost made him white out. 

 

They got a rhythm quickly, and pounded into and around him on both sides. Phil’s hand gripped his hip hard enough to bruise. Natasha whispered praise and urgings in his ear while holding his wrists against the headboard. Clint writhed, trying to stave off his orgasm. “Please! I’m gonna…”

 

Phil began thrusting faster, and Natasha matched his speed. Clint all but screamed his release, emptying into the condom and arching into Phil. He heard him grunting, then Phil’s hips stilled after a few more thrusts. 

 

Clint lay cooling between them for a few minutes, his heart racing and come splattered on the bed beneath him. He hadn’t fully recovered before Phil climbed over him to lick at Natasha, finishing her for the third time. She barely gave a whimper. 

 

Phil collapsed between them then, and Clint was mostly not light-headed anymore, so he got up and went to the bathroom. He grabbed a towel and some water, and brought them back to his lovers in bed. 

 

When they had gotten rid of the condoms, cleaned up, and hydrated, Clint curled around Coulson, who pressed next to Natasha. They stayed quiet for a while, just being in each other’s air and inviting sleep. 

 

Finally, Phil stirred. “We probably should talk about some of that,” He murmured. 

 

“It was good,” Clint piped up. “I loved it.”

 

“Yes, I enjoyed it too. A lot. But some of that was power play. Dominance, submission. Bondage. Objectification. The kind of stuff we should have safe words for.”

 

Natasha was nodding along. “Yes, so the assassin, the sharpshooter, and the spy are kinky. Who’s surprised?” She yawned. “But I agree. We should talk. In the morning.” Then she closed her eyes and appeared to go straight to sleep.

 

The tips of Phil’s ears blushed. “I guess she has a point,” he allowed. Clint snuggled closer and hummed. “Well,” Phil intoned. “In the morning.”

 

They drifted off to sleep cuddled together. In the morning, Natasha will have stolen all the blankets, and Clint will be snoring, and Phil will get up and make waffles for breakfast. And they will stay close and murmur memories into hot cups of tea, and then they’ll have another round because it’s only eleven on a Saturday.

 


End file.
